First off, if you’re unsure of what “The Wolf” is, perhaps a brief explanation is in order. “The Wolf” is a term used to describe the rash resulted from sweating between your thighs after walking around for an entire day in sweltering Texas heat (or anywhere else for that matter). I have experienced “The Wolf” more times than I’d like to, but almost always due to attending a music festival. Simply having an irritation is one thing; it’s not until “The Wolf” starts “Howling” that shit hits the fan and you had better figure out someplace to hole up (or find some sort of deodorant solid to soak up the beads of sweat dripping from your nether regions).

ANYWAY, my “Wolf” was “Howling” something fierce yesterday during my many treks in wrong directions for interviews that didn’t happen, searching for food, etc. I resolved at around 7 PM that no show I would actually want to go see was going to happen, as lines were simply too big to manage. So I decided to go to literally any bar/venue that would have me to check out any band who happened to be playing, SXSW sanctioned or not.

First up was Hank IV, whose name alone probably brought in a majority of their crowd (the band is of no relation to the legendary Williams clan). What followed was a sassy romp of late ’70s punk rock and surly country blues, capped by Bob McDonald’s insane stage presence. He looked like a 40-year-old accountant cuttin’ loose at the bar with his suit friends, sucking his finger and hobbling around with an entire leg cast for a seemingly unbroken or uninjured limb. RAD.

After that, it was off to Spill for the Texas Rock Fest, supposedly a nine-years running anti-SXSW showcase. The band Murder My Sweet played. They would have been AWESOME in 1991. Unfortunately for them, copying Layne Staley or any band from Seattle is a complete turn off. Super hot singer though.

Then off to the rooftop of Maggie Mays…

to watch this band (who literally no one knew the name of). Shame too, because they rocked AND rolled.

The rest of it is a bit blurry (roughly 8 double Jack and Cokes downed at this point), but stay tuned for the continuing adventures of Guy Who Can’t Get Into The Shows He Wants To See…

Beneath the French village of Crozet, the biggest, badass particle accelerator ever built, The Large Hadron Collider, is nearing completion:

Its purpose is simple but ambitious: to crack the code of the physical world; to figure out what the universe is made of; in other words, to get to the very bottom of things. Starting sometime in the coming months, two beams of particles will race in opposite directions around the tunnel, which forms an underground ring 17 miles in circumference. The particles will be guided by more than a thousand cylindrical, supercooled magnets, linked like sausages. At four locations the beams will converge, sending the particles crashing into each other at nearly the speed of light. If all goes right, matter will be transformed by the violent collisions into wads of energy, which will in turn condense back into various intriguing types of particles, some of them never seen before. That’s the essence of experimental particle physics: You smash stuff together and see what other stuff comes out.

What scientists hope “comes out” is evidence of the Higgs Boson, the so-called God Particle:

Most physicists believe that there must be a Higgs field that pervades all space; the Higgs particle would be the carrier of the field and would interact with other particles, sort of the way a Jedi knight in Star Wars is the carrier of the “force.” The Higgs is a crucial part of the standard model of particle physics—but no one’s ever found it.

However, a splinter group of internet scientists are rallying against the completion of the Large Hadron Deathstar, claiming that when it is fully operational, it will create a blackhole, and the end of the world will ensue:

This has of course, introduced the LHC, as it is abbreviated in the collective internet conscious as something of an upstart meme. It didn’t take long for someone to figure out that Hadron is just one letter-switch away from Hard on, at which point lulz were guaranteed:

Who needs science when you have /b/?

It was a vicious decision to be sure. On one hand, you have yourself the downtown buzz glaring at you, bands everywhere, interesting people, all cruising around darting their eyes and swaying their skinny hips. And in this downtown area last night were some amazing shows.

On the other hand, you had the goddamn Playboy Rock the Rabbit Party. Ummmmmm.

Having almost always been a man who covets the rock over the flesh, I endeavored to resist the pull of silicon and glitter (although I’m pretty sure I wasn’t on the list anyway, but that’s neither here nor there…), so I hoofed it down the thoroughfares, saw Matt Pinfield’s shiny dome broadcasting for DirectTV on an elevated hydraulic crane stage and checked out the Weakerthans at the Cedar Street Courthouse. Seriously, this was the best decision I’ve ever made about anything. The place was sweaty and packed (Austin’s morning breezes and chilliness had long since been replaced by punishing humidity) but seeing John K. Samson’s expert songcraft, along with the rest of the band’s superb set was great.

This was all after catching DJ Tommy Sunshine at the Alternative Press party on top of some building…

and before I capped my evening off with fucking HIGH ON FIRE.

Dude, if you’re not here right now, I don’t like you.

Now everyone knows that Slam Poetry pretty much sucks the bottom of my balls. However, someone finally came up with a way to make it at least somewhat interesting, by inviting “special” (as in Special Olympics) people to give it a try. The results are pure art, boiled down to its essence. “Werewolf is boys…naked” GENIUS

All over print? Purple and green? Only way the new fives could’ve rode the yellow bus any harder is if Abe woulda put some damn stunna nunna nunnas on .

I think Harley Davidson’s are great bikes, unfortunately some of the drivers of them are about as useless as an inverted penis. This fuck stick is an example of an expanding culture of doucheness. For his final act he will drink gasoline while firing his shotgun at the nearest bystander.